


Undisclosed Desires

by mjules



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: Act 2, M/M, shameless birthday fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-10
Updated: 2011-11-10
Packaged: 2017-10-25 21:55:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/275236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mjules/pseuds/mjules
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Act 2, pre-romance: Anders gets invited to Hawke's nameday celebration.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Undisclosed Desires

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kinneas](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kinneas/gifts).



> Happy birthday, dear. Sorry it's late. Hope it isn't terrible.

“An invitation? Let me guess,” Anders said, regarding the envelope in Varric’s hand with a look he usually reserved for Hawke’s more dubious adventures and any mention of the Deep Roads. “You’re finally making an honest crossbow out of Bianca?”

 

Varric snorted. “Stop being jealous of my love life, Blondie. It’s unbecoming.” He shoved the envelope at him again, and Anders finally took it. At Varric’s expectant look, he sighed and opened it, pulling out the folded vellum within.

 

“Hawke’s…nameday party? At the Hanged Man?”

 

“Tonight.” Varric looked very satisfied with himself. “The whole gang will be there! Assuming you come, that is. Wouldn’t be the whole gang without you.”

 

Anders smirked. “Flattery will get you everywhere you don’t want to be.” He tossed the envelope onto a table against the wall that held various potions and bandages and a bundle of slightly wilted elfroot that Lirene had sent over with one of her volunteers. The sight reminded him how far behind he was on his work already.

 

Varric shifted his weight, buckles and jewelry clinking pointedly. “Is that a no?”

 

If his expression had just been accusing and annoyed, Anders could have brushed him off. None of Hawke’s friends liked him, and he had no interest in sitting around being ignored and avoided when he had so much to do here at the clinic. But the dwarf had the gall to look _hurt_ , and Anders swallowed his misgivings enough to say, “That’s a maybe. If I get time, I’ll come.”

 

“You know, my brother used to say that the only time you ever get is the time you make.” He chuckled, dry and bitter. “But then, he was a nug-humping, back-stabbing son of a whore -- no offense, Mother -- so take that with a grain of salt. But I think Hawke would really like to see you.”

 

Anders laughed, ignoring the flurry of warmth in his stomach. Varric was a hopeless romantic given to exaggeration and not above using a little emotional blackmail to get his way. There was no reason to believe that Hawke might _really_ want to see him. “All right. I’ll make an effort to get there, but no promises. Now don’t you have filthy rumors to be spreading somewhere about Hightown hoity-toities and their lurid Lowtown love affairs?”

 

“Oh, nice alliteration, Blondie! But I can take a hint. I’ll get out of your hair.”

 

The glance Varric tossed said hair was enough to make Anders feel a twinge of self-consciousness, a luxury he hadn’t had time for in far too long. It might have been a nice little bit of nostalgia if it weren’t such a horrible feeling in the first place.

 

“See you tonight,” Varric called over his shoulder on his way out, giving a jaunty wave. Anders heard him whistling snatches of a tune and shook his head, smiling. The cheerful sound faded, and the noise of the clinic -- coughing, sneezing, quiet moans of pain, soothing whispers -- trickled back into Anders’s consciousness, reminding him why he was there.

 

He straightened his shoulders, wincing as he arched his back against a particularly stubborn ache, and surveyed the patients, trying to discern who should be helped first.

 

He had work to do.

 

*

 

It was late before the last patient left, and even then, Anders felt more than a bit guilty as he snuffed out the lantern wick. The twinge in his lower back had spread, and the area between his shoulders felt like it was on fire. Elfroot hadn’t helped, and it was a difficult place to reach with his own magic, not to mention how drained his mana was.

 

It was easier to ignore it than to try to fix it, and although he looked longingly at his bed, he couldn’t escape the prodding of guilt and duty and _justice_ that turned him toward the table and its uncomfortable chair. He shoved aside empty bottles and the remains of Lirene’s elfroot bundle and searched for his quill and paper.

 

He still wasn’t happy with the section of his manifesto about the benefits of magic and the value of caring for mages as whole people instead of just weapons or tools. He felt it gave naysayers too many loopholes and gave too much leeway to the argument that magical talent was a curse. The words were spilling out of him, and he grabbed the nearest bit of paper he could find to scribble them down before he forgot them.

 

 _The Circle argues that it exists as a necessary protection from the evils of magic, but in truth it only treats the symptoms of a disease of which its own practices are the root cause. There is nothing inherently evil about magical talent. It can be used for ill or for good, exactly as any other weapon wielded by man. The Circle could be of use if it existed merely as an educational resource to teach mages to wield their talents as any swordsman with a blade or any politician with his words should learn how to direct them to bring the least harm to himself and innocents, but when the protector becomes the predator, who then shall stand for what is right?_

A cramp in his palm made him pause, flexing his fingers where they had been gripping the quill too tightly, and he flipped the paper over to give himself more room to continue. He stopped when he saw that there were words already printed there, the letters finally coming into focus as the frenzy of inspiration stilled.

 

 _You Are Cordially Invited To The Nameday Celebration Of Garrett Hawke, Esq. To Be Given By His Friends At The Establishment Of The Hanged Man. RSVP._

Anders sat back, frowning as his back pulled and then spasmed. It was probably too late. Everyone was probably gone. Hawke was probably already back home, drunk and happy and in bed. He wondered if anyone had gone home with him for a little extra nameday surprise, and he scowled at himself as his stomach twisted at the thought.

 

“Don’t be ridiculous, Anders. You haven’t any right to be upset about Hawke enjoying himself with someone else while you’re sitting here cooped up in Darktown, writing manifestos no one will ever read and talking to yourself.” He arched his back again, wincing when it popped, and sighed. “I hate it when I’m right.”

 

*

 

Three times between Darktown and the Lowtown hex where the Hanged Man loomed, Anders nearly talked himself out of going. Twice he actually turned around and started walking back toward his clinic. The third time he stopped walking in the middle of the street and panicked over the realization that he didn’t have anything to give Hawke for a present.

 

 But it was too late now. All the shops were closed, and if he waited until tomorrow to buy a present and take it to him, it would be even worse than showing up at the party late. The latter could be blamed on emergencies at the clinic and letting time get away from him; the former would just look like he thought he was too good for Hawke’s friends. And Varric would kill him.

 

By the time he got to the Hanged Man, he was hoping that everyone had left. It would be better than watching all of them make their awkward excuses about how late it was and how they should be getting home exactly at the same time he sat down at the table. But when he opened the door to the tavern, it was almost worse that it was obvious the party was over. Norah was sweeping up the remnants of a shattered mug and prodding awake two intoxicated regulars with her broomstick. The rest was quiet, just the soft murmur of late night conversation and the musicians that were still plucking away at the same song they’d been playing every other time Anders had been into the tavern. He wondered if they knew any other ones.

 

He had just turned to go when a sharp whistle pierced the air, jerking awake the sleeping patrons and causing another to knock his mug to the floor, where it shattered. Norah swore, and Anders cast a startled look back over his shoulder.

 

Varric stood on a table in the far corner of the room, waving, and Hawke lounged on the bench beside it, finger and thumb still in his mouth. Anders almost smiled; it was the same whistle he used to call the mabari back to him in battle.

 

It was hard not to notice how Hawke watched him as he crossed the room, and he tried futilely not to speculate on why that was. _I knew I should have done something with my hair._

“Glad to see you could make it, Blondie,” Varric said, smothering a very badly faked yawn. “Nameday boy here isn’t done partying yet, and I’m getting on in years and need my beauty sleep.”

 

Hawke turned up his tankard, drained the dregs, and then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “No need for falsehoods among friends, Varric,” he drawled, smirking. “There’s not a dwarf in Thedas who believes he needs beauty sleep _less_ than you do.”

 

Varric shrugged expansively, spreading his hands. “What can I say? Bianca’s been feeling neglected lately and asked for some one-on-one time this evening. I never say no to a pretty lady.”

 

Hawke waved him off with a laugh, and Anders watched him go, still standing awkwardly beside the table. Hawke signaled Norah for two more tankards and then motioned at the bench across from him.

 

“Sit, sit,” he insisted, smiling blearily. “Varric was at least right about one thing. My nameday’s not over yet, and I’m not done celebrating.”

 

Anders sat, and Norah slammed both mugs down in front of Hawke, sloshing ale over the sides. Hawke gave her a winning smile and flipped her a silver coin as a tip. She hesitated, then smiled reluctantly.

 

“All right,” she conceded. “Just mind yourself, yeah?”

 

Hawke winked at her, and she rolled her eyes as she moved off to another customer.

 

“We might have made a tiny mess earlier,” Hawke explained in a mock whisper. He handed Anders one of the mugs, and Anders nearly dropped it when Hawke’s fingers brushed over his. Hawke didn’t seem to notice. “Isabela and Varric decided to teach Merrill how to do body shots, but they used Donnic to teach her on, and that was right about the time Aveline got here…”

 

Anders choked on a laugh, just picturing the scene. “I’m sorry I missed that.”

 

Hawke paused, and his smile softened, crinkling the corners of his eyes. “So am I.” He cleared his throat and looked down at his ale before meeting Anders’s gaze again. “I’m really glad you’re here.”

 

Anders took a sip of ale to hide his sudden blush, and coughed and sputtered as the taste hit his tongue. “Maker’s _breath_ , did he brew it in a templar’s boot?”

 

Hawke laughed, but Anders saw the way he cut his eyes away, staring at the edge of the table instead. Nervousness and guilt tangled together in the pit of his stomach, and he took a deep breath.

 

“I… I’m glad I’m here too, Hawke.” Hawke looked up, eyes clear and bright, and Anders tamped down all the traitorous hopeful feelings in his chest. “Happy nameday.” He lifted his tankard for a toast, and Hawke joined him. After they’d taken their drinks, Anders set the mug down again, grimacing at the taste, and said, “So how did they rope Donnic into that lesson anyway?”

 

As Hawke leaned back in his seat to begin his story, Anders saw a glint of gold at the doorway into the back of the tavern. He turned just in time to see Varric give him a thumbs-up before ducking back into his suites, and he smiled.


End file.
